Broken Angel
by Zoe Montrose
Summary: It was more than a mistake, a drunk, twisting, cruel crime. He never was his and now never would be. Trigger Warning: Noncon!


**Hetalia is not mine, the characters are not mine, only the idea**

 **I do not condone rape!**

* * *

Antonio hadn't meant to, had really tried not to, but in the end he had failed. Lovino stood with his back to him, arms wrapped around his small body – had he always been that fragile – shoulders hunched to supress their shaking. His hand fell even before it could reach his Italian-.. No, not his anymore. Never again his. Had never been his. Now would never be his.

With a pained face, Antonio took a step back. "Lo siento, Lovino… Lo siento." There was not really anything left to say.

* * *

Somehow in the back of his mind he had felt all along that he should have declined the invitation to go out drinking with Francis and Gilbert, but that would have been unusual and he hadn't wanted to face an interrogation from his best friends. Again.

He had felt drained after an entire day of work, an entire week of work, with little to no pause and a messy house to return to. He had argued with Lovino before he had left, a petty thing had started it – looking back to it now he didn't even remember what it was – which had ended with Lovino locked in their bedroom and him cleaning an almost completely destroyed kitchen. And so he had ignored the little voice whispering in the back of his mind and had accepted when Francis had ringed the doorbell. What else was there to do? Let Lovino sulk if Lovino wanted to sulk.

He couldn't remember much of that night, only blurred lights and pictures and voices, laughter and the taste of salt, tequila and then lemon on his tongue. Eventually only tequila. He knew he must had thrown up on the way back home, there were clear evidences on the front of his shirt and shoes. He must have gotten into the house somehow, he remembered walking in on Lovino talking on the phone, crying Lovino talking on the phone. Beautiful Lovino, but only his roommate. Not his love. And Antonio couldn't help but notice how breath taking Lovino looked when he was crying. He knew he must have said something, but for the love of God, he couldn't remember what had been said, only that suddenly there had been yelling and more yelling and then silence.

A cornered Lovino, screaming, terrified, begging, pushing against his chest. But Antonio was stronger, had always been stronger, and he had been so angry, angry, angry. He had been yelling in a mix of slurred Spanish and English, and it had felt so good to for once be the one yelling instead of being yelled at. He had seen the terror in Lovino's eyes and maybe had even understood to a certain degree what he had been doing, but he had not stopped his hands. Hadn't ceased his rough touches. Hadn't listened to the sobbed begs.

Here his thoughts were beginning to clear a bit.

After he had been done he had cradled his Lovino to his chest, a sobbing and shivering and bleeding Lovino, but still so beautiful, had murmured sweet words, phrases of adoration and love into his hair. And somehow he was even more ashamed of those words than of taking Lovino against his will. He had hurt him, destroyed whatever little trust the Italian had had into him, had stripped him off his dignity, had destroyed a being so frail… And then had talked about love.

He had woken up on the cold floor, alone of course in an empty and cold house. He didn't have to figure out where Lovino had come to, only an hour after he had woken up Ludwig had come over, silently gathering things into suitcases and while his eyes had screamed anger and of disgust, Antonio knew that he didn't know what he had done. He had let the German do, knowing that he did not deserve to ever set eyes on his Lovino again.

And while the alcohol screamed at him the next days, begging him to just drink it already and give his aching heart a break, he couldn't. A sickness crept up his throat whenever he saw a bottle. He had cried. Destroyed his house, curled up and prayed and begged and sobbed. Self-loathing was now the only feeling next to the pain that he could feel.

And all along Antonio knew that if he hadn't already been one before, Lovino surely was a broken angel now.


End file.
